


Down with the Sickness

by MistressPandora



Series: The Metallicar Soundtrack [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Vampire Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: After being turned into a vampire and scaring Lisa and Ben, Dean accidentally prays to Castiel for help, but what he asks for is too much for the Angel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Disturbed's ["Down with the Sickness."](https://youtu.be/L78yVFeyvRo)

Crouched in the bushes with his back to the wall, Dean could hear Lisa talking to Ben in their bedroom. Their voices were muffled but Dean’s budding vampire senses had no problem picking them out through the torrent of night-time noises. She was reassuring Ben, making sure he was okay and unhurt. “ _ I have no idea what’s going on, Ben, I’m so sorry I let him put you in harm’s way. _ ”

Dean pounded the back of his head into the brick behind him several times, eyes squeezed shut against the offensive glare of the street lights.  _ Stupid _ , he thought.  _ Stupid fucking idiot. _ He rose to his feet and slid into his car and sped out of the neighborhood. Thirst burned painfully in his gut and Dean gripped the steering wheel until it creaked. He fought back against the hungry rage that started as an urgent  _ need _ to kill, to feed, but he turned the rage in on himself and the hunger slowly shrank away. He pulled off onto the shoulder in a heavily wooded stretch of highway. The rage was building and he had to relieve some of the pressure or he was going to explode and do something even dumber. He clambered out of the impala, stalked right up to a sturdy-looking tree, and punched the bark. His knuckles cracked but he didn’t break anything, and Dean cried out, howling until the anger faded and his throat felt raw, pulling the hunger down with it, and Dean slumped to the grass. 

Dean just tried to focus on the crickets chirping, a frog somewhere making a God-awful noise, the wingbeats of owls hunting for rodents. The breeze blew through the trees with what sounded like the volume of a tornado but wasn’t nearly so violent. No, the only thing violent next to this highway was himself. Off to his left and about four yards up, an owl hooted low and mournful.

Owls. Wings. Feathers.

Cas.

“Man, I hope you’re doing better than I am,” Dean muttered without thinking.

Dean winced against the thunder of wingbeats, very enormous wings. Not an owl’s.  _ So much for not praying. Way to go, dumbass. _

“Dean?” Concern laced Cas’s words. “What is--.” He stopped when Dean looked up at him.

Dean had to squint to see Cas. He was just  _ so bright _ , as if he were made of light. The shadow of his wings spread out wide behind him, filling the space between the car and the trees. Dean fought against the searing pain in his eyes as they were overloaded with the brilliant white light of Cas. He wanted to see those wings again. Holding a hand out in front of him to block the most intense glare from Cas’s chest, Dean squinted at the wing shadows. They weren’t really shadows though. They were in the sense that they weren’t actually  _ there _ , Dean knew he couldn’t touch them if he reached out and tried, but they weren’t truly dark like a shadow. They thrummed with a life and a light of their own, white and blue, glittering through the shafts of each feather like a million tiny comets. Like veins filled with nuclear reactions. Then the wings folded back behind Cas and the glare coming off of him overpowered Dean’s eyes and he had to look away, squinting. 

The light came closer to Dean and Cas spoke again. “Dean, how did this happen? Please tell me that you did not do this to yourself intentionally.” Cas’s voice echoed in Dean’s head with the shrill, ear-drum bursting power he hadn’t heard since… well, since he’d gotten topside and Cas had been trying to communicate with him. He clamped his hands over his ears, flashing back to an empty gas station with shattered windows.

“Cas, keep it down!” Dean practically shouted through gritted teeth. “No I didn’t do this on purpose, seriously?”

After a pause Cas spoke again. The shrill echo was still there, but somewhat less intense, like noisey feedback from a speaker when the microphone gets too close. Warm hands closed on Dean’s wrists and pulled them away from his ears. “What are you?”

“I’m a friggin’ vampire, man. Why would you think I did this on purpose?” Dean asked indignantly.

Cas stared into him with blue eyes hard and tilted his head to the side like a curious bird. “Dean, you have been known to make… rash decisions.”

Dean looked down a little sheepishly, “Yeah, okay, you got me there.” He turned his gaze back up to Cas’s eyes after a moment. Vampires must still get cold because he was trembling. “Cas, I need you to do me a favor.”

Cas didn’t say anything, just waited patiently for Dean to continue. 

Dean took a deep breath and got that trembling crap under control. “Can you heal me?”

Sadness darkened Cas’s eyes, and that blinding white light coming from his chest didn’t dim, per se, but seemed to turn the faintest shade of blue. Cas slumped his shoulders and shook his head. “I am sorry, Dean. That is not within my power.”

Dean thought as much. He nodded. “Then kill me.”

Cas looked for all the world like some asshole had just punched him in the stomach. He straightened up and took a step back. “Do not ask me to do that, Dean.”

Dean didn’t plan to be on his knees in front of Cas, but he was, clutching at his right sleeve, feeling for the angel blade he knew was concealed there. “Please, Cas.” He found the blade and wrapped his fingers around it through the layers of Cas’s clothes. “Sam won’t do it, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep from killing someone. Please.”

Cas pulled his arm away and glared down at him. His voice was dripping with quiet anger and something like pain. “Listen to me, Dean Winchester. I did not storm Hell to raise you just to send you back. I did not rebel against Michael and Raphael to help you defeat Lucifer just to see you die. I was not brought back from obliteration to kill you.” 

Then he was gone, and the side of the road was dark again, and Dean was alone and shivering. He indulged in a few minutes of hating himself for hurting Cas and climbed to his feet and back to the car. Samuel should have met up with Sam by now. Samuel would do it. He’d do it quick. Dean had already died horribly once. Compared to being shredded by hellhounds, beheading wouldn’t be that bad. Probably. Still, he’d really hoped that when he died again, it’d be a surprise. Knowing that it’s coming sucks. Again.

_ What the fuck. Who has thoughts like that? _

***

Dean was puking his guts up--possibly literally--when he saw Cas again. 

Sam and Samuel had gone out, probably to finish mopping up the vampire nest, and Dean was left to suffer through the vampire cure in their crappy motel room alone. He wiped his mouth with a washcloth. The rag was still coming away bluish-black, like the crap in the trashcan, whatever it was. Dean really didn’t want to know. 

The lights were dim because Dean’s eyes were still sensitive, even though his vision wasn’t enhanced anymore, and the sound of Cas’s wings didn’t hurt his ears this time. Dean’s eyes were closed, coughing into the washcloth, and felt a weight on the side of the bed. He opened his eyes to see Cas sitting there, appearing concerned but not angry or wounded anymore.

“Cas,” Dean croaked. He took a swig of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spit it into the trashcan by the bed. 

“Dean,” the angel answered simply. “I see Sam found a cure.”

Dean nodded and coughed. “Yeah. Tasted like ass.”

“The best cures usually do.” When Dean looked up at Cas, a small smile tugged the corners of his lips.

Dean’s shoulders sloped with relief to see the humor. “About yesterday by the highway… I was a jerk.”

“I forgive you, Dean,” Cas replied, smile turning warm.

Violent shivers wracked through Dean’s frame along with a muscle spasm in his gut that twisted and pulled at his insides until he was curled into the fetal position to ride it out. Cas’s hand felt hot on his back, strong muscles under soft skin. Dean had discarded his bloodied, filthy shirt before he’d climbed into the bed, but hadn’t had the strength to put on a clean one. He didn’t have the strength for a shower either, so he’d opted to just save the laundry. He was glad for that decision suddenly, because feeling Cas’s skin against his was comforting and soothed away some of the pain. He hummed out a tiny noise of pleasure, too tired to hold it in. He was glad Cas was there.

Dean tried a sip of water, but it came right back up.  _ Definitely puking up actual guts _ , he thought. No way there was that much in his stomach. He laid his head back against the pillows, gasping for breath. Heat suddenly washed over his body and he was dripping sweat. He kicked off the covers and groaned. “This sucks a lot,” he said.

Cas cupped his hand over Dean’s forehead, leaving the skin there cool and sending goosebumps down his chest and arms. Dean sighed with relief. It was short-lived relief, of course, because within moments he felt a stabbing pain in his mouth and it felt like someone had taken a gigantic tuning fork to his jawbone. He spit into his hand and caught three bloody fangs, roots and all. “Well that’s a new twist on an old nightmare,” he muttered. Dean dropped the fangs into the trashcan with three little  _ splosh _ es. 

He spit several more times, each preceded by sharp pains that were obviously the sharp teeth pulling free while his body put itself back to rights. “I hope that’s the last of ‘em,” Dean said after the tenth spit-and-catch.

“Let me see,” Cas said, squinting and leaning forward to peer into Dean’s open mouth, his fingers cool against Dean’s lips as he probed gently and methodically the left uppers, left lowers, right uppers, right lowers. “I think so. Dean, you should sleep.”

Dean licked his lips, and flexed his jaw. He was absolutely not thinking too hard about the fact that Cas had just had his angel fingers in his mouth. “‘S not good to pass out when you’re puking. Might choke.”

Strong hands pushed against Dean’s shoulders, feeling hot now because Dean was so cold. Without much of a fight Dean relented and let Cas tuck the sheets up over him. “I will watch over you.”

***

Sam crept cautiously back into the motel room that morning, hazy sunlight barging in behind him. He stopped short when he saw Castiel perched in a chair next to the bed where Dean lay, feverish and generally looking awful. Sam’s eyes darted from his brother to the angel and back again. Castiel met his gaze silently and when Sam realized he was not going to move, the taller man nodded, quietly gathering his belongings and showed himself out.

Periodically Dean would groan and shift restlessly under the bed clothes, either sweating or shivering. Sometimes both. Castiel reached across the short distance to mop the sweat from Dean’s brow or lay a cold washcloth against his throat. 

Castiel never looked at a clock, but he could tell by the shade of orange sunlight peering through the cracks in the curtains that the sun was setting again. A thin sliver of light splashed on Dean’s face, pale and splotchy skin punctuated by brown freckles. He could hear the sound of Dean’s teeth grinding, forehead wrinkled and eyes fluttering under closed lids. Nightmares. Castiel dabbed at fresh beads of sweat with a cool cloth and laid his palm over Dean’s forehead, which smoothed and relaxed under his touch. The grinding noises stopped and Dean’s breathing slowed again. 

Dean started awake, sudden and violent, eyes wild and afraid, catching Castiel’s wrist in his hand. The human’s eyes traced up Castiel’s arm to settle on his face before he exhaled and fell back to the pillow, panting. “How long was I out?” Dean croaked, face softening into mere exhaustion. 

Castiel retrieved a fresh bottle of water from the bedside table, looking at the clock. “Eighteen hours, more or less. Can you sit up?”

Dean seemed to turn the question over in his mind for a moment. “Yeah,” he answered and struggled to prove it. Castiel only held the open bottle of water out for him, waiting patiently for Dean to take it. “Thanks,” he said before taking a careful sip. He swallowed slowly and seemed to wait for his stomach to rebel. When it stayed down, Dean took another sip and let the bottle rest in a loose fist on his lap. 

The desire to reach out and touch Dean probably shouldn’t have surprised Castiel as much as it did, but nonetheless he found he had to clasp his hands tightly in front of him to keep his fingers from trying wrap around Dean’s. He settled on asking, “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck and roasted on a spit, thanks for asking.”

What could Castiel say to that? He studied Dean’s face, green eyes surrounded in bruise-colored skin. Dean matched his gaze blink for blink for a moment before his eyes drifted down Castiel’s face to his lips and then conspicuously darted anywhere in the room that was  _ else _ . Castiel frowned as he stood. “I am relieved that you are returning to normal. I’ll leave you be.” He adjusted his trench coat with a shrug of his shoulders, taking a small step toward the door, indulging in an odd little hope that Dean would ask him to stay. 

“Cas?” Dean said at about the same time that Castiel had given up.

The angel turned back to face his friend again. “Hmm?”

“You know I’m with Lisa. Right?” 

This time Castiel was the one to look away first. “Yes.”

Dean’s eyes were wide despite his obvious struggle to keep them open let alone focused. “Even if there were something, you know… here,” he said slowly, waving two fingers of his right hand to indicate the space between them. “I wouldn’t do that to her. Or Ben. Okay? That’s not who I am.”   
Castiel forced a smile that he hoped appeared genuine. “I know, Dean.” As the door shut behind him he let out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding. He couldn’t tell if the sense of something negative on the horizon relating to Dean’s comment about Lisa was a true premonition, wishful thinking, or the pessimistic side effect of being so closely bound to the Winchesters. He supposed it didn’t really matter.


End file.
